


in fingertips, in teeth

by pr_scatterbrain



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12226245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr_scatterbrain/pseuds/pr_scatterbrain
Summary: “You’re going to hit the ground running,” Nicky’s agent tells him, before he arrives on US soil.Nicky mostly hits the ground again and again.





	in fingertips, in teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoosierbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/gifts).



> To Hoosierbitch, thank you for your generous and interesting prompts/letter. Initially I really loved the idea of a domestic curtains au... only when I sat down to write it I found myself getting caught up the backstory which ended up becoming the story. I hope you enjoy this nevertheless ❤️❤️❤️

 

 

_Draft day, June 24, 2006._

  

The strange thing is, Nicky doesn’t remember many details from his draft. The day passes in a blur of colour, noise and nerves. What does stay with him is fragmented; a painful clutch of nerves, clawing at his throat. His hummingbird heart. Sweating through his new suit. And later, the delayed second between his name being read and realising what it means. What it meant for his future.

Nicklas Bäckström, 4th overall pick for the Washington Capitals.

It feels like an echo outside of himself.

He becomes something else. Someone else, in a moment. In an instant.

Alex is there; Alex announces the Capital’s pick; Alex calls Nicky to the stage and it is his hands that help Nicky into a capitals jersey for the first time.

That means something, Nicky thinks. Or it means something to him.

No, Nicky doesn’t remember much. But he remembers Alex; tall, confident, towering over everyone and everything. Even then – even in the beginning, he was the one person everyone was looking at. Even Nicky. Especially Nicky.

 

 

(Later, Alex confesses he was so nervous to step on stage.

Much later he confesses he begged someone to take his place.

At first Nicky doesn’t believe him.

Much later, he does.)  

 

_2007-2008_

 

“You’re going to hit the ground running,” Nicky’s agent tells him, before he arrives on US soil.

Nicky mostly hits the ground again and again.

Most of his previous season was spent in the Elitserien league winning. It would be a lie to say he didn’t get used to it. It would also be a lie to say he hadn’t kept track of the Capitals dismal season. It was hard not to. Yet neither the Capitals or Brynäs IF won the playoffs, so it’s not like he doesn’t know disappointment first hand. Even without finishing his previous season with the Le Map Trophy, Nicky finished the season with a collection of other hardware. They’re all now on display in his family home.  He still feels vaguely embarrassed to see them on display with his parents and his brothers various cups, medals and trophies. Though that’s not something he can say. Especially not in Washington D.C. where his arrival is welcomed not only by the team but by the fans.

The first time training camp is open to the public, Nicky stops when he sees a Swedish flag being held in the stands.

He stares at it for a beat. Maybe a beat too long because Chris Clark notices and grins.

“Pretty cool, eh?” he says, skating beside Nicky.

His hands are loose, as are his shoulders. Unofficially, he is the Capitals new captain. Nicky isn’t sure when it’s going to be announced publicly, but probably soon. Before Nicky arrived, Chris reached out to him; his voice friendly and open on the phone. Nicky wasn’t sure to say to him then and he isn’t sure what to say to him now.

He doesn’t manage a smile back at Chris, but he’s not terribly good at that. No one seems to mind terribly. But then, apart from the people who brought the Swedish flag, no one really came to see him. Though the Capitals intend to change that. 

There is talk of rebuilding at training camp.

There is talk of the young guns.

(‘Young Guns’ quote unquote.)

His agent tells Nicky that is what he is being called; that what the press or maybe just the PR team the Capitals have employed have dubbed the young talent on the team.

It’s something Alexander Ovenchin is asked about.  But then, he’s asked his opinion on nearly everything.

Alexander – Alex – is the focus of every game and the centre of the locker room.

He might not have the C on his jersey, but it’s coming. It’s coming.

“This is his team,” someone tells Nicky during his first weeks in Washington.

Nicky thinks they say it like it’s a joke. It isn’t. Nicky is young, but he understands the care in which Alex is treated. Especially in light of the easy talent Alex overflows with. Alex is young too, Nicky thinks, when Alex loops an arm over Nicky’s shoulder when the team goes out for dinner. Alex is long, colt like limbs, strong shoulders and raw power. On any other team, people would be talking about Nicky. Nicky knows himself and his hockey. In Washington D.C. people are talking about who will be Alex’s centre. Apparently Nicky is on the shortlist. Apparently Nicky was drafted with Alex in mind.

“Having a good time?” Chris checks in with Nicky after dinner is served.

 Nicky could say that, so he does.

It isn’t a lie. It isn’t the truth, but no one wants that.

People were telling the truth about Alex though – about everything.

Where Nicky was left to develop in the SEL for a season after his draft, Alex arrived ready-made. On the ice, Alex is a force of nature. He is both brute force and knife like precision. The moment he steps onto off the bench and onto the ice, his presence is felt. There is an electric charge to him. It’s undeniable. Nicky feels it even in practice, where Alex’s brilliance should be tempered if not by the coaching staff who always insist he save something for the game, then by the repetition of drills. But it isn’t. And Nicky feels something inside him change shape in response.

Most of last season was spent losing game after game. It’s clear that Alex intends this season to be different. It is clear that this season, he is going to set the tone.

“We’re going to do it,” he tells Nicky, pulling him close before they take the ice.

His eyes are so blue and so direct. Nicky’s in his pads, his uniform, and holding his stick. He can feel Alex’s touch going through him like a current.

They are. They’re going to do everything.

 

 

(It’s inevitable really.

Given enough time everyone falls into his orbit, even Nicky.

Especially Nicky).

 

 

There is nothing particularly familiar about Washington, but Sasha is. He always is, to Alex.

Alex has cut a place for himself. It was mostly made for him before his arrival, but the shape of it fits unevenly. Like it was made for someone both bigger and smaller than him. The louder he is, the easier it is to fill the part people look at, and the simpler it is to slide back into Sasha’s space. Though he has had only one year’s head start on Alex, Sasha has a home and has more or less figured out how to pack for the Capital’s road trips. To his advantage he had Sergei Fedorov to teach him. No one bothers to teach Alex.

“Why would they?” Sasha drawls.

The corner of his mouth twitches, just a little.

Alex makes a face. Somehow that just makes Sasha break into a smile.

There is more kindness in him than is fair; Alex uses it to his advantage and on the road they share soap and cologne and street clothes.

They don’t share a room. They probably could, but Alex trades between different North American’s. He watches movies with Brooks, annoys Eric Fehr, drinks with Mike, and hangs off the two Matt’s. It works more than it doesn't. Or at least more than it does with Sasha, who rooms with Sergei.

Alex still can’t quite get his head around being on first name terms with him. With the great Sergei Fedorov – he was Alex’s hero as a child. He used to watch all of his games and then try and mimic his best moves the following day at practice.

“No one would guess,” Sasha says.

The problem with growing up with Sasha, is that he sees right through him.

“You don’t count,” Alex tells him.

Sasha grins.

Sasha smiles easily. The guys on the team don’t know that, but Alex thinks given time they will. No one is as easy to love as Sasha is. No one is as easy to make laugh as Sasha either. Tucking his chin over Sasha’s shoulder, Alex wraps his arms around him. Sasha’s hair is damp and the collar of his shirt is wet. Alex wore it the day before yesterday. No one seems to notice Sasha wearing it when the team go out to drink in a glittering NYC bar.

It’s nicer than the bar they visited in Buffalo a week and a half ago.

The drinks are more expensive, the people harder to impress, and the music louder. Somehow Sasha finds some Russian American’s in the crowd. They are probably the only people who know who they are but that doesn’t make any of them more interested in them.

“Their loss, boys,” Chris says when they share a cab back to the hotel with him.

There is colour in his cheeks and his hair is mussed.

Sasha is already asleep. Or pretending that he is.

Alex leans into his side and he thinks this is alright.

 

 

(Alex ends up making out with Sasha outside his room. It’s stupid and fun and would have been a lot more fun if they were sharing a room.

“Fuck you,” Alex swears, delighted when Sasha points that out.

Sasha grins. “Fuck yourself tonight.”)

 

 

Off the ice, everyone is drawn to Alex. Everyone wants a quote for their article, a drink, a date, an autograph. His time – his attention; it’s in constant demand. Everyone wants it. Wants him. Where he stands, long shadows stretch out behind him.

Nicky can hardly manage a supervised postgame interview without feeling foolish.

His agent tells him it will get easier.

Alex makes it all look easy.

Alex makes everything look easy. He’s on his way to cracking fifty goals this season.

And for some reason, Alex hooks an arm around Nicky’s shoulder and pulls him close when the team all goes out as a group after a win against the Flyers. It’s a home game, thank god. Nicky can’t stand Philadelphia. It’s an ugly city, though arguably it would probably look better to Nicky if he didn’t get carded when he tries to buy himself a beer.

Murphy’s Law means he gets carded in Washington.

“Wouldn’t happen at home,” Alex says.  

This is meant to be their home, but Nicky knows what he means.

“No,” Nicky tells him.

“People know you there,” Alex says, leaning close.

And that isn’t why he can by a beer without any hassles, but that isn’t what Alex is saying.

A lot of people know Nicky back home. More knew about him before they actually knew him. That was the thing about being a Bäckström. His family name came before him more times than it didn’t.

Alex grins.

People know him too. Even here. Yet that doesn’t mean they like him. Certainly not in NYC. Or Montreal. Or Philadelphia.

“Shit city,” Nicky says, and Alex laughs.

“Shit team,” Alex says, not helping himself. “Make it too easy.”

One of the Vets laughs when they overhear that.

"You sound like Penguins," Donald Brashear says.

"Fuck you," Alex swears.

Donald laughs. Alex has charmed them all. Even the ones who should be too sensible for his antics. Maybe especially those. He even charmed Wayne Gretsky without trying.

And Nicky can’t even get a beer in the city that has apparently adopted him as one of their own.

“I will buy,” Alex promises Nicky.

There is something terribly sincere about him. And his eyes are terribly blue. Neither should be a problem – Nicky expects a pretty girl or two to distract Alex at the bar or at a nearby table. Instead Alex returns too soon with a few things other than just beer in his hands and the team welcome him back loudly because he’s bought them a round of drinks.

Amongst them all is a bottle of Nicky’s favourite beer.

“Right one?” Alex asks, but he’s not asking.

He knows he’s got the right one.

He also got Nicky a shot.

He got them all shots, but Nicky drowns him before anyone can double dare him into it.

Visibly delighted, Alex grins and Nicky can’t help but return it.

And suddenly Nicky has everything; all of Alex’s attention and no one to compete against. Or that’s the way Alex makes it feel, and Alex is very good at making it feel like that.

 

 

For some reason Nicky isn’t particularly surprised when he ends up going home with Alex.

“You drunk?” Alex checks, and Nicky is blushing.

Nicky is blushing because he’s never done this before. And because he hates being on uneven footing, Nicky takes it as an insult and swears at Alex.

Alex says his name.

Nicky wants him to shut up. 

Alex has already stripped out of his stupid shirt and his jeans are low on his hips and he asks again and again until Nicky shakes his head. He isn’t drunk.

“Good,” Alex says.

 

 

The next day they drive to practice together and maybe it should be something. A thing. Or anything. Mostly it feels something akin to how it always feels.

There are bruises on Nicky’s body. Some from Alex, some from the Flyers.

There are bite marks on Nicky’s shoulders.

He can feel them whenever he shifts in his seat.

Alex moves with languid ease. He even joins in with the jokes when their teammates see hickies on his neck. His laughter rings out through the locker room.

“Yes, very good night,” he tells Brooks Laich when he asks.

No one seems to pay any attention to Nicky as he changes quickly and slips onto the ice. It’s a closed practice today and the stands echo with their emptiness. The ice is fresh under his skates. His muscles protest as he extends his strides and gathers some speed. There are a few other guys on the ice. It’s early yet. Practice has yet to formally begin.

They have a game that night, and one two days later.

 

 

It’s a thing. A thing that happened, Nicky thinks later, when he thinks of it at all. (He tries not to.)

 

 

Alex fucks and Alex scores and everyone is already saying he’s won the Rocket.

Nicky watches and Nicky assists on some of his goals when the Capitals new coach, Bruce Boudreau, allows them to play on the same line. Somewhere along the lines, they become friends. Nicky thinks they are friends. Friends who fucked, that once.

Then twice, when they have a day off. It’s stupid, but that isn’t new.

Maybe there should be a point where the other shoe drops but Nicky doesn’t know why it has to.

Somehow between playing hockey, trying to figure out the NHL, and everything else, hooking up with Alex becomes just another thing Nicky does.

 

 

The Capitals keep winning until they lose. They keep losing until they win.

This time last season Alex doubted the team would be able to make up the difference between the other teams in their division. Not when they keep pulling further ahead. This season though… this season is a different story. Or could be. The press smell blood, but they like the story more.  

“They like something to sell,” Sasha says.

Sasha is sprawled over Alex’s couch. His eyes are closed. Alex looks at his bracken brown lashes and the way his dress shirt is wrinkled. Alex should be working on his coursework. It’s his fourth year at the Russian State University of Physical Education. It’s important. In a few months he will take his exams. He needs to study. He needs to stop asking for extensions. He needs to do better.

Alex should be working, but he glances at Sasha.

There is a softness to the way he is holding himself. Alex wants to crawl over him and settle against his side. So he does.

Sasha grumbles.

Alex shushes him.

Tucking himself close, Alex exhales softly.

His parents are due to visit soon, but not soon enough. Not that he wants them watching the Caps lacklustre games in person.

“It’ll turn around,” Sasha says. He says it with gentleness that makes it hard for Alex to breathe for a moment. “It’s just one game. One loss. We’re at the top of our division.”

“That isn’t enough.”

Sasha brings a hand up to cradle the nape of Alex’s neck. “I know.”

And Sasha does, because Sasha knows him.

Alex has always been selfish. Having enough has never been enough for him. Not when he wants everything, even this kindness. He’s got to get up tomorrow morning. The season isn’t over. Not for him and not for Sasha.

Alex doesn’t just want to win.

Alex wants with a hunger that carves into him. He wants everything; he wants to change the game. He wants to define it – rewrite it. He wants to be remembered.

He wants more than everything.

He closes his eyes. Against him, Sasha’s radiates warmth. Pressing close, Alex listens to the steady beat of his heart and like that he drifts to sleep.

 

 

And, and, and… they do turn it around. For a while they keep winning and they keep losing and in the end they manage more in the former column than the latter.

Only they don’t win when it matters.

  

_2007-2008_

 

There is something sharp about Alex. It’s a sharpness that Nicky keeps a careful distance from.

Over the offseason Nicky hears the rumours and talk. There are a lot of both. When he returns to Washington, he even listens to what Alex says when he opens his mouth. Words spill out of him in a way that looks careless, but what is careless is the way he acts on the ice when the Caps play the Penguins.

There is the way Alex plays hockey. Then there is the way Alex plays when facing Evgeni Malkin.

Nicky knows the difference. Alex pretends he doesn’t.

If Nicky was smart, he’d keep his distance the same way Sasha does. But he doesn’t and it’s no surprise that he ends up getting elbowed in the nose when the two teams end up at the same bar after a terrible game.

“I will kill him,” Alex says.

Malkin wasn’t the one who almost broke his nose.

Nicky would say as much, but he doesn’t really want to.

Mike Green ends up driving him to one of the team medic’s home. There, Nicky’s nose is pronounced fine.

“It isn’t broken,” the medic says; which is more or less the same thing but doesn’t stop Nicky from waking up with a black eye.

No one notices.

The only thing the hockey press report on is the hit Alex tried to make on Malkin – which was stupid as well as dangerous. Thankfully Malkin was as fast on his skates as he was quick to run his mouth, and ducked out of the way at the very last second.

 

 

Nicky grows up in locker rooms. He grows up surrounded by his father’s teammates. He grows up within the hockey world. To some extent he knows his experiences are unusual. His perspective isn’t universal.

It takes him a while to realise Alex and Sasha are fucking. Probably longer than it should.

In his defence, they are Russian. Russian hockey players live in each other’s pockets. They always have a hand curled around each other’s neck, legs tangled together when they sit side in the locker room. Even Sergei Fedorov had been like that – more than once Nicky remembers seeing him pull Sasha close, turning his head close to say something to him in a crowded place rather than raising his voice.

It isn’t like Alex is any different with Nicky.

It isn’t like anyone cares.

Nicky isn’t even sure if he should care.

Alex flirts and fucks and has this way about him. He doesn’t look anything like Sergei Fedorov did at his age, but there is something about Alex. Something bright and electric in him. The things he can do on the ice – the way he is off the ice; of course people want him. How could they not?

 

 

Somehow it becomes just another thing.

  

_2009-2010_

  

Nicky only had a two seasons playing alongside Sergei Fedorov. In that time they shared countless team dinners and drinks and road trips, but it wasn’t like they particularly bonded. He is a good guy – a great player and future hall of famer in every league he graced –but Nicky was always awkward around him. That isn’t saying much though. He’s a margin better now, but given Fedorov is now playing in the KHL they don’t run in the same circles.

Never the less he ends up having dinner with him at the Vancouver Winter Olympics.

Both Alex and Sasha look up to him in a way that is endearing. Or Alex does; Sasha hooks up with him in their apartment. When Alex finds out, he isn’t sure whether to be upset or envious. He ends up pestering Sasha for details.

It distracts them both from the outcome of the games, which Nicky supposes he should be thankful for.

 

 

(He isn’t.)

 

 

There are no gold medals in Washington. Or none in Alex’s home, at least.

But there could be a cup.

He says that when Ted check in on him after he gets back from Vancouver.

It makes Ted bark out a burst of laughter. He slaps Alex’s shoulder and sure, why not. Why not a cup. Why not this season. Why not them.

“Why the fuck not,” Ted grins.

So a cup.

The cup. The Stanley Cup.

Alex makes himself move forward. He makes himself cut away at the misery and shame and he makes himself smirk to the press.

If the guys can tell it’s an act, they’re good enough not to interfere with it in public.

Once or twice Brooks takes him out for lunch. Other times Mike turns up and challenges Alex to endless games of street hockey when they really should be doing more sensible things.

And if it isn’t enough, then no one blames him for wanting it anyway.

 

 

Nicky accidentally sleeps with his boyfriend’s boyfriend part way through the playoffs. Or whatever they are to each other. It’s a mistake, mostly because it’s awful how much better in bed Sasha is than Alex.

“I know,” Alex grins; hair knotted and red pillow creases on his face.

Alex is all elbows and teeth and impatience.

Nicky wants to bite him, but he mostly tries to ignore that impulse. It mostly works.

He’s twenty two and the Capitals are one game away from sweeping the Montreal Canadiens.  It’s only round one, but it’s easy to forget. It’s easy to forget everything around Alex. It’s stupid, but then so is he in all the ways that count. Alex isn’t much better. He never is.

Alex is blinding. He would blot out the sun if Nicky isn’t careful.

He’s cracked fifty goal this season and well on his way to sixty in only the first round of the playoffs. Everything he touches turns to gold.

And normally, Nicky would be better. Normally he’d keep his feet on the ground. Normally he wouldn’t let things go so far. But the playoffs are always different. Alex just has this way and a few drinks turn into a few more and he isn’t drunk and neither is Sasha, but somehow Alex still manages to convince them to make out in the bathroom of the club the Capitals have ended up in.

Washington clubs are hit or miss, and mostly misses given Alex’s taste.

That too is an excuse Alex uses and then they are back at his place. The worst thing is, they’re more or less sober when they agree.

Nicky should know better. Sasha probably does.

Yet still, Nicky ends up on his hands and knees, whimpering and bitting his lip to stop himself from begging.

“How come you don’t know how to do any of that?” Nicky asks Alex after.

Alex is flushed and stupid and has that look in his eyes like he wants to roll Nicky on his back and crowd between his thighs and fuck him while he is loose and sloppy and still stupid and drifting from his last orgasm.

Nicky eyes him. He could probably be convinced; but the bar really should be set higher, especially after having his cock sucked by Sasha.

“He’s so good, right?” Alex grins.

Sasha smiles. It’s awful really, how he prettily does. No wonder Alex has spent most of his life in awe of him.

And of course Alex doesn’t know anything. Not when Sasha is as charmed by him as Nicky is.

  

_2010-2011_

  

The more things change, the more things stay the same.

Sometimes Nicky dates. Sometimes he hooks up. Mostly he somehow ends up following Alex home and biting his mouth whenever Alex says something stupid.

It isn’t something they talk about.

Sometimes other people joke about it. Mike thinks they’re stupid. Nicky doesn’t care. It’s not serious. It’s not anything to worry about either.

“It’s nothing,” Nicky says, because it is.

Mike gives him a look.

Sasha doesn’t bother to talk about it at all. He doesn’t talk about anything. Not about Alex, not about Sergei. Both are open secrets. More or less.

 

 

(Sasha and Nicky don’t talk to each other about Alex.

They probably should have.)

_2011-2012_

 

Something happens during the offseason. Nicky isn’t sure what, but at some point between texting Alex while they were both holidaying – Nicky in Paris, pretending to care about understanding French, and Alex in the US actually caring about the final designs for the Capitals new jerseys – Alex goes to the US Open and meets Maria Kirilenko.

He meets her and decides to get serious.

He meets her and he knows she’s the one.

That is what he actually tells Nicky, when they catch up when he arrives back in Washington D.C.

“What did he tell you?” Nicky asks Sasha, when they are over at Mike’s, pretending to care about his new DIY deck project.

Sasha shrugs.

Apparently that’s his answer.

Nicky bites his tongue. Or he should. Instead he presses.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Sasha admits after his second beer.

And okay. Okay.

 

 

So Alex has a girlfriend.

 

 

Maria is on tour for most of the season – the Capitals season, that is. During Alex’s offseason, he followed her. Now he is back in Washington, she fits in visits where she can. Her first is partway through the season.

When Alex brings her to practice, he introduces her to everyone apart from Sasha. Nicky thinks he meet her before the season began. Sasha doesn’t confirm that one way or the other, but he does ask after a friend they have in common. He even asks in English, rather than Russian, which allows for two of the trainers to be drawn into the conversation.

Everyone can see how pleased Alex is, how proud he is. Maybe especially Nicky. And even he has to admit Maria lovely. Because she is.

That’s the thing. Or maybe it isn’t.

There is something written into Maria that Nicky sees in Alex. Something he sees in all of them. She’s like them. She doesn’t need to understand Alex’s life because her life is one and the same. The clockwork turns of it are defined by her passion and made possible by years of ongoing hard work. Talent shines true in her. It’s been nurtured and it’s come into full bloom. They are both generational talents - both made of gold as far as Russia is concerned. 

No wonder she and Alex were drawn to each other.

No wonder.

 

 

There were always other people. Alex shone so brightly; there were always other people falling for him, wanting him, falling into his bed. Nicky wasn’t the first and just because Sasha was, didn’t mean either of them were the last. Not when Alex was Alex.

Nicky knows that.

He’s always known it.

He never particularly minded it. It was just how things were. He doesn’t know why it’s different now.

It feels like everyone notices. It’s awful and humiliating. 

Mike tries to talk him about it. He pulls Nicky aside after practice and they end up grabbing lunch at a place that Nicky is half certain Brooks must have told him about. There are orange slices in the kale salad, and the dressing has a purpusful bitterness to it. Nicky waits for the intervention, but Mike talks around Alex. It’s – it’s not what Nicky expected.

“We should do this again,” Mike says afterwards.

And –

“Yeah,” Nicky nods.

And so they do.

Mike has an easy manner. They grab lunch once, sometimes twice a week. Sometime they get take-away and Nicky watches Mike work on his Vespa. It’s a ridiculous indulgence. Bright orange and stupid. If it were an actual motorbike the Caps probably would have found a way to ban him from riding it during the season. They probably should ban him from it anyway. It might not go fast, but it’s still stupid.

Nicky doesn’t say that – any of that – but he thinks Mike gets it. He doesn’t care though.

Sasha, for some reason, thinks it’s cool. Or he thinks Mike is cool.

They have their in jokes; all incomprehensible and half Russian, half English. They sometimes have lunch too; once or twice the three of them go out together. The third time Alex and Brooks tag along.

“So this is where you go,” Alex says.

Somehow he feels like he has grown another foot in height this season. Or maybe put on an extra hundred pounds of muscle. He’s playing hurt. Something with his lower back. It’s his favourite sleight of hand; he hides hurt with bravado. He’s only gotten better at it over time. Nicky sees through the act because he’s meant to. Alex is his winger. (Nicky is his centre). Nicky has to see through his act. It’s the only way to play on his line; the only way to have a chance of keeping up.

Technically, Nicky could probably be the one to make Alex work to keep up with.

He knows himself and he knows his hockey. He always did. Only now, no longer a rookie, he knows Alex.

Alex has a new dog. He talks about it over lunch. A pretty German Shepard puppy. She’s clever, he tells them.

“Knows Russian and English,” he says.

Sasha laughs.

As he does, Alex looks delighted. Nicky smile falters.

The hurt is muted. An echo.

There were – still are – other people for Nicky. Sometimes girlfriends. Sometimes boyfriends. Sometimes just people; numbers on his phone; texts with only two or three short sentences. During the offseason he let himself get introduced to friends of friends, let himself run into familiar faces. Let one night turn into something off and on, and then off. Nothing was anything. Not really. Not now, not in comparison to Capitals hockey. That was the truth, at the end of the day.

He’s never been good at anything other than on the ice. But then nothings ever meant as much as what happens on the ice.

So it’s probably his fault that he excuses himself halfway through another one of Alex’s stories about a mutual friend. In the tiny café bathroom Nicky stares at his phone and gives himself a few minutes. Four or five of them. He thinks about calling his brother. He thinks about calling the bartender at that new bar, the one Matt Bradley recommended. The bar was crap, but the bartender comp’d Nicky’s drinks all night and blew him in the coat check room.

It was good. Or ok. Or whatever.

Nicky could call. He doesn’t. He might text later.

The minutes slip by. One shifts worth of them. He puts his phone back into his pocket and goes to wash his hands.

When he returns to the table, their lunch has been served. Alex is telling another joke. Sasha catches Nicky’s eye.

Nicky shrugs. He lets Sasha make of that what he wishes.

Alex has his arm slung over the back of Sasha’s chair now. Same as countless other times before.

Vaguely Nicky suspect there might be something still going on between Sasha and Sergei Fedorov, and maybe there was a gain of truth in the rumours about the supermodel he sat next to at a show at Russian Fashion Week a few years back.

Yet Alex was always a constant. For both of them.

Only now, he isn’t.

And Nicky isn’t sure what to do with that.

 

 

Then Alex has a fiancé.

Is a fiancé.

Is engaged.

Is getting married.

 

 

And Nicky is still Alex’s best friend.

And Sasha is still Alex’s best friend.

And weren’t they always just best friends?

It’s hard to remember.

It’s hard not to tell Alex to fuck off when he asks Nicky to be his best man.

 

 

Nicky is good at turning inwards. He’s good at reflecting and refracting. Alex has always had the spotlight. He’s his own spotlight. For Nicky, it’s self-defence by now.

From the corner of his eye he watches Alex wrap his arms around Sasha, slip his hand under the collar of his shirt and Nicky doesn’t know how any of it works.

They were friends. They fucked.

Nicky should leave it at that.

 

 

(He doesn’t).

 

 

(There is hockey, Nicky reminds himself. There is always hockey.

Only hockey is Caps Hockey and Caps Hockey is Alex’s hockey. )

 

 

Sasha has phone sex with Sergei sometimes.

Sometimes Sergei tells him to eat better and drink less.

Sometimes Sasha asks him what to order at team dinner.

“We’re going to the restaurant,” he says. “You know the one – the one with the red tiles in Buffalo near the river.”

“Buffelo doesn’t have a river.”

Sasha thought it did.

“Doesn’t it?”

Sergei hums.

Maybe Sasha was thinking of Pittsburgh.

And maybe Sasha isn’t a teenager and maybe Sergei isn’t his hero anymore, but Sergei tells him to order the lemon parsley pasta dish and later at dinner Sasha does.

The following night the Caps are back in Washington. The Caps are losing but that's hockey. What isn't is Alex. During halftime, he rages in the locker room. Maria and her family aren’t in their seats. Later, it turns out the Capitals had given her seats elsewhere. At the time, in the locker room while Alex is yelling, Sasha sat in his stall. His breathing is still laboured from his last shift, but it is steadying out.

His laces are tight, with neat double knots. He stares at them.

For a moment, he feels very far away from everything, even himself.

Other people raise their voices. Some are plaintive. Some are furious.

Someone lay a hand on Sasha’s thigh and squeezed.

“You ok there?” Mike asks.

Sasha nods.

Sasha is –  

Wherever he is. He is –

He is –

His ears ring. Are ringing.

Alex’s broken stick is taken away. It is replaced, like magic. Good as new.

 

 

(Good as new.)

 

 

Sasha has dinner with Alex and Maria afterwards. After the game. After the win and loss. Her family are there. Her entourage. Her coach. Her agent. Sasha talks to both. They have friends in common. Friends of friends. Friends of friends of friends.

Someone orders wine. Sasha has a glass of it, but he doesn’t drink it.

He laughs at Maria’s jokes.

He likes her; respects her.

“I can see why you love her,” he tells Alex later. Or maybe he told Alex that the first time they all went out for dinner.

And he can.

Maybe he might have fallen for her. He falls for people easily. Someone told him that once. His sister, he thinks. He isn’t sure if she’s right.

Mostly he falls back on hockey. Only it isn’t quite there to fall back on. 

 

 

_2012-2013_

 

The news comes.

The news comes and –

And it’s old news.

Old news before it is news.

And it should be underwhelming. But it isn’t.

It isn’t.

Alex doesn’t have words but he should. He’s had the words before. He’s said them to too many players who the Caps have traded over the seasons. But they don’t come now.

And Sasha smiles.

He tells Alex he loves him, and if Alex cries then no one knows but them.

 

 

(Alex should have known. He should have known).

 

 

Eric calls Sasha when his team signs him. Eric Staal. The Staal with the cup and multiple gold medals. The one who is now Sasha's new captain. 

Sasha has no idea where or how he got a hold of his number.

Over the phone he sounds very Canadian and rather stilted, but there is kindness in his voice.

The Hurricane’s signed Sasha to play on Eric’s line. They wanted him to be Eric’s winger.

It’s been a while since anyone wanted Sasha to be anything.

(It’s been a while since Sasha wanted anything the way he should want things).

 

 

And there is talk.

Talk, talk, talk.

Then nothing.

Then a lockout.

And Sasha isn’t going to North Carolina. But Nicky does end up coming to the KHL.

 

 

Nicky comes to the KHL because Alex asks.

Alex asks nonstop until Nicky says yes.

 

 

(Nicky fucks Sasha when Dynamo plays Torpedo.

If possible, it’s better than he remembered.)

 

 

The lockout ends in a whimper. Or maybe a bang. It depends who is asking and who is writing about it.

Alex flies back with Nicky.

Sasha flies back by himself. 

 

From North Carolina Sasha hears the news. But it comes to him second, third and fourth hand. And by that point he doesn’t care to hear it. Not when he heard it from the source during the offseason; Alex was to switch wings. He was to go from left to right wing. It was meant to reinvigorate him. It was meant to break his slump. (It was grasping at straws, Sasha thought privately).

In Moscow, Sasha listened to Alex run out of words.

In the offseason Sasha was the first to practice with Alex in the corner of his right eye.

“You still play like a left winger,” Sasha told him.

Or maybe he didn’t.

He can’t remember. That was always the thing with Alex. He always understood.

And Alex still does play like a left winger, even when Adam Oates swaps him into the new role.

“Change is everything,” Eric says, without being prompted.

Eric has gentle hands. A gentle heart too.

He stands by Sasha’s side and speaks on his behalf – without ever being asked – and maybe no one is counting things like that anymore but Sasha thinks they matter.

 

 

(Nicky calls sometimes.

Sasha doesn’t know why. According to the news, Nicky was quoted saying that he and Sasha weren’t friends; that Nicky didn’t really know Sasha.

“Are you fucking him?” Nicky asks.

Sasha hums.

“Staal,” Nicky specifies.

“Why?” Sasha asks.)

 

 

(For the record, Sasha isn’t fucking Eric or his wife or his boyfriend or anyone, really.)

 

 

(Alex calls sometimes too.

Sometimes Sasha answers.

Most of the time he doesn’t.)

 

 

Somewhere along the line, Sasha’s reputation became a shadow that leads, rather than follows him. Its shape grows increasingly unfamiliar to him with every passing day. As if outside himself, he listens to Matt Bradley’s infamous radio interview and wonders when exactly a leak from a locker room becomes this. Becomes public broadcast. Becomes something that is said with such ease – and purpose.

Apparently Sasha never cared. Apparently Sasha wasn’t there when it counted. Apparently he didn’t show when it counted. Apparently, apparently, apparently. And it’s all on the record. All shared happily by people he lived and breathed alongside of for season after season.

“We understand each other,” Eric says, without being prompted in a media scrum.

He says that publicly.

He says it to the press.

He says it in Washington.

He says it about Sasha and means it.

And Sasha knows slippery slopes. He’s been on one for the longest time. Yet Eric’s so good at making it feel like Sasha’s found somewhere soft to land and solid to place his feet.

“They don’t know you,” Eric says, before the Cane’s take the ice that night.

They are standing just inside the visitors changing room and Sasha’s heart is pounding in his chest. Eric’s eyes are intense and Sasha feels pinned. Caught. Caught out. Worst of all, he feels known.

“Fuck them,” Eric says.

And Sasha can’t speak but he manages to follow him out onto the ice without hesitation.

 

 

The game comes and goes.

Sasha flies back to Carolina. Always back to Carolina.

 

_2013-2014_

Later, Alex wonders how they kept it going as long as they did.

But that is later.

When Maria ends their engagement, he –

Alex makes a lot of bad choices.

Nicky is one of them. Sasha is another.

They both forgive him.

 

 

(They shouldn’t.)

 

 

“You’re never going to change,” Maria told him during the summer. Their last summer.

There was something very fragile about the way she held herself. Something brittle in her posture. Her hands were laced together and there is - was-  a tick in her jaw. The ring Alex gave her shone in the light. Sunburnt and desperate, he shook his head. He loved her. He loves her. Past and present and future tense.

She looks away. “I know.”

And that’s the thing. That was always the thing.

She knew him.

And the problem was never the he didn’t love her. It was how he loved.

His heart. His selfish heart. It’s the core of him – the core of everything.

In not a particularly neat succession the ring he gave her is returned. One of his friends takes it and he doesn’t see it again. Vaguely he thinks it ended up with his parents. They can do with it as they wish. They call most days. They send Alex’s brother to check in on him. They insist on dinners. Between the three of them they talk around what happened. Alex’s friends mostly talk around him.

Alex has had enough of talking.

He goes to the French Riviera and doesn’t look back.

 

 

(Alex doesn't know why he can't want things the way he should. He doesn't know why he keeps wanting more than he should.)

 

 

When he returns to the States, he takes Sasha out for drinks when they are both in NYC playing different teams. They fuck in the bar bathroom.

It’s stupid, sloppy, and Alex ends up blinking away tears when they are putting themselves back together.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” Alex admits to Sasha.

But he doesn’t say that.

‘My heart can only be broken so many times,’ he says.

But he doesn’t say that either.

He doesn’t say anything.

He does try to take Sasha back to his hotel room.

Sasha looks at him – his mouth is spit slick and Alex still has him pinned to the locked stall door.

“I’m expected back at my hotel tonight.”

And Alex – Alex knows Sasha.

“Staal waiting up for you?”

Sasha’s expression shutters and in a flash of an instant Alex can’t read him.

He says some more stupid things.

Alex is lucky Sasha doesn’t knock out another tooth.

 

 

In November, the Cane’ fly out to play the Caps. The game goes into overtime, and is won by Nicky’s pretty goal. It wasn’t any prettier than the one Staal scored thanks to Sasha, but any goal that wins a game is pretty in Alex’s books. 

Sergei is in town; fundraising for the Lokomotiv Yaroslavl charity. Alex and the Capitals are working with his foundation. 

There is a weight to his shoulders. One that Alex feels on his own.

Alex isn’t sure if it will ever go away.

“We carry what we can,” Sergei says.

There are echo’s everywhere. Places and people and there is the way Sergei looks at Sasha.

And Alex isn’t a teenager. He isn’t a rookie. He still has the same heart. It should have been tempered by now. It hasn’t. Not really. And so, selfishly, he makes sure he shares a cab to the hotel with Sasha.

“Which one?” Sasha asks, when they are alone in the backseat of the cab together.

He looks at Alex and there is a hint of amusement hidden within his gaze.

“Either?” Alex says, trying his luck.

Sasha shakes his head.

And Alex knows he is greedy. He knows he always asks for too much. Sasha has been one of the few constants in his life. His north star. Out of the two of them, Sasha should know better. But he doesn’t and neither does Alex because he tries his luck for the second time, hoping for the best.

 

 

(“I told him I love him,” Alex tells Nicky the following day when they should be lacing up for practice. He smells like cigarette smoke and too much cologne.

Nicky’s breath catches. Like a fist, like a fight.

He doesn’t look at Alex.

Won’t look at him.)

 

 

(After that night Sasha stops answering his calls.)

 

 

Sasha is furious. Sasha is a mess.

Sasha is split in half.

Sasha wants to be with Alex, by his side, on his line, in his bed, and always in his line of sight. Equally Sasha is so very glad for every mile that separates them. His heart was never like Alex’s. It’s not even the same as it was when he first flew to the States; sometimes Sasha thinks each time it was broken he lost part of it.

He sees Sergei again in LA. It’s been a while by then but it usually is.

He’s there to attend another charity event, this time invited by Wayne Gretsky. The Hurricanes are there to beat the Kings. There is every chance they might.

“You’re playing well this season,” Sergei says.

Sasha is. Or he is, despite his wrist injury.

Sergei shakes his head. “You are. I see your games.”

Feeling more fragile than he likes, Sasha lets him order them drinks and then dinner.

“How do you stand it?” Sasha wants to ask him.

Sergei is still standing.

He stands and he laughs and he lives and somehow he even has time for Sasha.

Before Sasha was Anna and before her was Pavel. For a little while and a long while, they were everything to Sergei. Maybe they still do mean something to him. Sasha wouldn’t know. No one ever talks about it now. Well. Other than Pavel, who is blunt and fearless and goes after the press when they print lies. He’s won too, which still surprises Sasha.

Sasha probably could ask Sergei about what happened between the three of them. However he isn’t sure it would help.

They end up in Sasha’s hotel room.

“Mine’s a mess,” Sergei says, watching as Sasha undresses. “Lego everywhere the eye can see.”

Sasha winces at the thought.

Sasha’s never been great with people, but he manages to be good for Sergei.

Sometimes he wonders if they both should have grown out of this.  Sergei is still Sasha’s hero, but he’s also human now. That’s what years end up doing to people. They’ve done a number on Sasha too – he isn’t the teenager on his knees anymore.

When Sergei undresses, he holds himself carefully. There is pain in his wrists, his knees. He’s so beautiful. Blonde, vivid blue eyes and with such a sharp jawline. Age suits him. In the photos Sasha remembers having on his walls; Sergei was boyishly handsome – like an American model. He isn’t like that now.  There is beauty in him though. A beauty time only makes more visible to the naked eye.

Sergei is easy for him. Easy to be kissed and fucked. Easy to be loved.

He laughs when Sasha presses inside him and talks dirty. His voice breathless, catching like a hook inside Sasha.

Sasha takes his time, draws it out.

“Do you want me to beg?” Sergei asks, breathless as Sasha rocks his hips.

“Would you like that?” Sasha asks, kissing his neck, biting the hinge of his jaw.

Sometimes Sergei does. When he does, he unspools for Sasha and without fail it always undoes both of them.

“Not tonight,” Sergei says.

 

 

Afterwards, Sergei laces his fingers through Sasha’s and squeezes.

“Whatever it is that has you like this, it will be ok.”

Sasha has to close his eyes.

 

 

Momentum is what keeps Alex together. He lets it build and build. The further it takes him, the easier it is to let it.

The season is – Alex doesn’t know.

He uses it to hold himself together. He pushes everyone’s limits. The only reason he doesn’t push them too far is Nicky.

It gets them pretty far, but not far enough. Never far enough.

After being knocked out, Alex manages to attend see to his final responsibilities. Repetitive and draining, they are dragged out by the media. Even after all of these years, they have a way of finding bruises. Diverting their gaze is a game of words said and unsaid. He isn’t sure how he plays it, but the PR team let him go without too much fuss.

In the player parking lot, Alex finds Nicky waiting.

His face is drawn and he’s holding himself like he’s carrying an injury. They were all playing hurt by the end of the series.

It’s muscle memory to find his way to Nicky. And Nicky opens his arms to him like always.

_2015-2016_

When Sasha goes back to the KHL, he goes back with a broken heart. He doesn’t talk about it, but Alex knows. He knows because he knows Sasha.

“You heart is my heart,” he tells Sasha when they speak.

Immediately after he says that Sasha makes an excuse to end their skype session.

Alex debates calling Eric. He ends up calling Evgeni instead. It isn’t any better. Not really. Not when Evgeni makes promises to call his Metallurg contacts to make sure Sasha receives a warm welcome.

Because Evgeni is Evgeni, Sasha ends up moving into his home.

“No one’s living there,” Evgeni says, like he can just do that.

Evgeni might not be sixteen and green, but he still treats Sasha like his hero.

Sasha is Alex’s hero too.

Sasha ignores Alex’s texts and instead calls him precisely half an hour after he gets home from Caps practice. It’s timed perfectly and almost certainly Sasha arranged his entire day to make it. The thought of that makes Alex’s heart hurt.

“Is Zhenya’s house ugly?” Alex asks, because he knows Sasha won’t answer any of the questions Alex wants to ask him.

Sasha hums.

It is ugly. Alex has seen Evgeni’s home in Pittsburgh. It’s all half empty rooms, plastic-y taxidermy fish that he caught while on holiday, and stupidly huge TV’s.

“I can see the river from my room,” Sasha tells Alex.

Alex’s house has a garden. It has large windows. It has custom made blackout curtains that roll down with a push of a button. He’s had them before in his last home, but these ones actually look nice. Probably because Nicky chose them. He said he didn’t trust Alex to choose the right kind.  

“You hate the water,” Alex says. “You wouldn’t come to the French Riviera with me.”

Sasha laughs.

Alex would say he falls in love with Sasha then. But it would be a lie.

He’s been in love with Sasha for as long he can remember.

“And Nicky?” Sasha asks, when Alex tells him that.

Alex swallows.

His hands shake so he laces his fingers together.

“Since the draft, probably.”

Sasha nods. “I thought as much.”

Alex and his stupid heart. Always getting him into trouble.

Sasha is quiet for a while. He ducks his gaze away from his laptop camera.

“You should tell him,” he says eventually.

 

 

(Alex does.)

 

 

(Nicky doesn’t talk to him for days).

 

 

“Papa, please,” Andre says, pleads. “One drink.”

He is sweet, in a way that Nicky doesn’t think he ever was even when he was that age.

That night he and Latt’s each accrued a point to their name. Thanks to them, the Capitals won their game against Columbus. It wasn’t a particularly hard won game, but a win is a win especially at home. Having the crowd at their back is still new to them, and it makes them burn brightly in the locker room and here in Brooks' favourite restaurant. Their joy is infectious and it’s not hard to buy them a drink. Nicky buys them dinner too.

“You’re going soft,” Alex says, slipping into the seat next to him.

Nicky probably is and it’s probably why Alex is pressing his advantage.

It shouldn’t be so easy to fall back into old habits. Nicky has had years to pick up new ones. Better ones.

Inside his chest, his heart is the same. He isn’t sure of anything.

The thing about Maria was she had the measure of Alex.

She knew his heart long before he did.

Nicky isn’t sure what that means for him. Not when he has always made a point of taking care with his own. The only person who has come close to knowing it has been Sasha. Which is probably ironic. Nicky rather hopes it is. Otherwise it can only be cruel given how alike the two of them are.

“Maybe,” Sasha says, when he skypes.

Lately they've been doing that. Sasha initiated it, but Nicky's kept it up to the point where they have been skyping each other reasonably regularly. Nicky knows why, but they both pretend there is no reason – that it is normal for them to speak so often – to speak like old friends.

“Would it have been easier if I fell in love with you?” he asks.

The corner of Sasha’s mouth twitches.

Right.

Stupid question.

Instead Sasha talks his way around asking about Alex and Nicky talks his way around answering. More or less it is what they always do.

“He misses you,” Nicky somehow ends up saying.

He isn’t sure why he says it. It visibly throws Sasha off for a beat.

Nicky feels something grip his heart. Something in his blood rebels.

He is tired.

He says that.

Sasha exhales.

Leaning forward, his blue eyes crinkle in the corner. “We’re together, Alex and I.”

Nicky –

Two sides of the same coin, Alex once said. He wasn’t wrong.

“We can have this – we can have Alex. It isn't like before.”

There are other people. That’s the line on the tip of Nicky’s tongue. It’s the lie he’s told over and over again.

It’s Alex. It’s was only ever him in Nicky’s heart.

He doesn’t want to talk about that. He doesn’t want to even think about it.

He spits out something ugly at Sasha. Something cutting and cruel.

Sasha is even keeled.

Sasha doesn’t look away. “Aren’t you tired of this?”

 

 

(Nicky is…

He doesn’t know.)

 

 

(No, Sasha and Nicky were never friends. That isn’t the right term for their relationship. It never was.)

 

 

There is something tender about Alex. There always has been. Sasha's never had any defence against that. Or Alex, really. Like a fool, Sasha lets himself love Alex. Lets himself fall in love with him all over again. In the quiet hours, they find the time to talk to each other. They work around timezones and different schedules. There is something freeing about it. Sasha's never been good at hiding himself from Alex and to be honest, he's never wanted to. Separated by hundred of miles, Sasha lets himself want and lets himself have. And maybe Alex's tenderness brings out Sasha's own. As the days pass, Sasha finds it easier to breath, easier to let himself feel and listen. The parts of himself that he folded away in the NHL; the parts that didn't translate or look good in public; they all start to return in fits and starts. 

"I miss home," he says, for the first time in years. 

Alex makes a sound of agreement. 

Sasha misses him. He says that too. 

"I'm sorry," Alex says sometimes. 

Sasha wishes he wouldn't, but he tries to let Alex speak. He thinks Alex needs it as much as Sasha does. 

"I don't expect you to change," Sasha tells Alex, because he thinks Alex needs to hear it, he thinks Alex has needed to hear it for the longest time. "I don't want you to change."

They don't have the same hearts. Sasha doesn't love easily or quickly. It finds him in odd places and times; it moves slowly in his blood. Yet they both love in multitudes. And Sasha says it first. He's loved Sergei since he was a kid. Maybe whatever they are should never have lasted past the first flush of excitement of Sasha's early years in Washington. It has, though. 

"I love both of you," Sasha says, "And I know you love Nicky and I."

Alex inhales shakily. 

Sasha makes himself pause. 

He's known and loved Alex most of his life. The two go hand in hand. 

He can't give Alex the life he could have had with Maria. Their life won't take that shape. It can't, Sasha knows, but their lives together can be something of it's own. Of their own. Sasha wants that. He thinks Nicky will too, given time. 

"Sasha," Alex says. "Sema."

His sounds cleaved open. He is, Sasha thinks. They both are. They have no defences left. 

Sasha takes a breath and he says what he knows Alex knows deep down. "We love you. We've always loved you."

 

 

 

Nicky doesn’t think he would know the shape of his own life without Alex there. He doubts anyone else would either. The two of them are part of the few core Caps players to have stayed with the team season after season. Their lives have grown more and more intertwined over the years. It hits him at odd times. The younger players only know this – them. Somehow the two of them are a constant. Between the two of them they lead the team and share the burden of it.

If some days are harder than others, well, Nicky is used to using Alex’s persona as a shield. Sometimes even against Alex himself. Though that’s probably a lie that he lets himself buy. Enough other people have bought it over the years. Nicky isn’t naive. Not about that. Not about Alex.

Give Alex an inch and he will take a mile, that’s what Nicky has always known. On the ice Alex only needs an opening to turn a game around. Often he doesn’t even need that. For years he has been making opportunities. Brute force and knife like precision define his game.

And Sasha is right.

He’s always right.

Nicky is tired.

Momentum is a tricky thing. Momentum and inertia.

He’s got the hang of hitting the ground running. And he’s been running for so long. Keeping pace, but it’s hard to set it. Hard to look at Alex and let himself imagine something other. Something else. Something that Sasha promised he can have.

“You can have anything,” Alex says, when they are waiting at another airport for another delayed flight.

They’ve been in this same position too many times to remember and yet Nicky’s heart pounds in his ears. He looks at his hands.

Alex leans his shoulders against Nicky’s.

“I’m thinking about buying a house,” he says.

“Yeah?”

Alex nods.

The rest of the team are scattered. Some a few arguing by the windows over something someone said on social media. Andre is sitting a few seats down, nodding his head to the music he’s listening to through huge, overpriced headphones. Next to him, slumped half over, Oshie looks like he is falling asleep.

“I want it to be for us,” Alex says.

His voice is soft, but true in a way that completely disarms Nicky.

He swallows a breath.

“I want that too,” Nicky tells him.

 

 

Midseason isn’t the best time to buy a new house, but Alex isn’t sure if he could wait until the offseason.

Neither Sasha or Nicky ask him to.

At nighttime they skype each other. Each time they pick up on conversations they must have been having for years. It’s strange to think of all the things Alex missed along the way. Their voices wash over him and his heart feels settled in a way he isn’t sure how to articulate. Sometimes Nicky runs listings past Sasha. It’s been awhile since he was last in D.C. but he has his own set of opinions. None are new to Alex, but the thought of Sasha returning to the city in the future fills him with joy.

They talk about that sometimes. Sasha is happy in the KHL. Happy in a way that Alex hasn't seen for far too many years. Not only that, he and Metallurg look like they could be on their way to winning the Gagarin Cup. For now, he is where he should be. Later, though, Alex and Sasha talk of being able to share a day to day life. Neither of them are sure what shape that will take, but when Alex views houses, he tries to image not only Nicky but also Sasha in them.

It’s such a thought to comprehend.

“Give yourself time,” Nicky says, when it’s just the two of them.

It isn’t dissimilar to the advice Sasha gave Alex in Moscow.

“I told you to be patient,” Sasha corrects.

Alex’s never been much good at that.

His heart is impatient and coloured clumsily.

It probably makes him easy prey for his relator, who finds him a home a few months into their search. It’s old and needs work. Sentimentally, that probably appeals more than it should. From Moscow, Sasha looks at furnishing suggestions from the interior decorator Ted recommends. Between Sasha and Nicky, Alex is not short on opinions though he’s not entirely certain how committed they are to pretending that they care about his preferences. Not when Nicky seems allergic to colour and Sasha refuses to let him keep his bed.

“New home, new bed,” Sasha says simply.

“Is that so?”

Sasha nods absently, distracted by the latest email from the decorator. This one about the kitchen redo.

 

 

Sometimes Nicky wonders if it’s meant to be awkward.

It feels awkward. Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like it did years ago, when Alex drifted to and from Nicky and Sasha’s beds. 

Out of the three of them, Alex is the only one with any ability to speak candidly. But even then, he often doesn’t. They all have their ways of working around things, of speaking without saying much at all. Such skills have been honed over the years.

“It is enough?” Alex asks Nicky once.

Nicky isn’t sure what he is asking. Sometimes it’s hard to read Alex. There is something cultivated about the way he uses words, and uses his charisma and charm. Nicky’s never had much of the latter, but he’s watched Alex wield it like a shield when it suited him and a weapon when he wishes it.

The only answer he can give is an honest one.

“Yes,” he tells Alex.

Because Alex is enough.

“Yes, for me too,” Alex tells Nicky a few days later.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the line, _We spoke all night in tongues, in fingertips, in teeth_ by Robert Hass, from his work _Spring._


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